


The Ranger

by Girlblunder



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 13:41:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29385750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Girlblunder/pseuds/Girlblunder
Summary: Years after the end of the Third War, Sylvanas is left roaming the land hunting down all manner of beast and beings under the guise of redemption. Often despising the very people she's forced to assist, she and those like her have taken on the role of Ranger in pursuit of her true goals. It's that or imprisonment, which isn't really a choice at all. She'll play by the rules as long as she has to.Heavily inspired by The Witcher and Xena. Slow burn. Some alternate history/lore.
Relationships: Jaina Proudmoore/Sylvanas Windrunner
Comments: 10
Kudos: 79





	The Ranger

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! If you're reading this, I'm sorry in advance. I have no idea if anyone will be interested in this, and I have no idea how frequently I'll update. I don't have a beta and only give things a cursory edit so, there's that.
> 
> Each chapter is meant to be a standalone sort of story that will hopefully seamlessly build to a bigger one. There won't be romance for quite some time, and it might not look like the sort of romance some might be hoping for.
> 
> I've sort of cherry-picked what I like from WoW, The Witcher, Xena, etc with this idea. Don't expect to necessarily follow any one thing and you'll probably have a better time. Without further ado, I hope you enjoy it.

* * *

Howling Fjord in autumn wasn’t Sylvanas’ favorite place to be. The trees were all wrong, tall lumbering things with green needle-leaves that didn’t turn the way they should, stubbornly refusing the brighter golds and oranges that would lend warmth to a land that lacked it. No, the only time the trees changed here was when they were diseased. It was fitting in its own way.

A light fog had enveloped the path all morning, a thin layer that hid some of the wrongness of the trees. She would be grateful if it weren’t also troublesome.

The air was damp as Blight trudged along, his black mane faintly shining with moisture. His steady gait on the dirt road had served as an effective lullaby in the past, but there was an odd energy in their surroundings that Sylvanas didn’t like. She pulled her cloak tighter around herself. It was habit more than anything, one that she was glad no one was around to see.

This road was less traveled, the dimwitted locals miraculously having enough sense to avoid the path often lined with the slow, hulking forms of stone giants. She never bothered the giants and they mirrored her courtesy.

Given their current pace, the nearest village was still a ways off. The stench of humans would invade her senses long before she arrived. She wasn’t looking forward to it.

She bent her head to sniff her leathers. A messy run-in with a crypt fiend had left its mark—namely, the guts she’d spent hours scouring out of every crease and niche of her armor. She’d run out of the powder she needed to treat the odor, and acknowledged that perhaps even human was preferable.

The wisps of fog suddenly thickened, and visibility dropped to only as far out as she could reach. She flicked her ears as she searched for muffled sounds, instinct telling her that something was amiss.

A low, guttural groan drifted across the road, followed by the grinding rumble of stone on stone. She dismounted Blight in a swift roll, taking up her bow as she landed lightly on her feet. Blight shifted from hoof to hoof once before settling.

The sound repeated, and Sylvanas was left holding her breath as an unnaturally crimson giant crossed in front of her. The red had seeped into its porous stone and moss in macabre splotches.

She could taste the tang of blood on the air, but the giant paid her no heed.

With a sigh, Sylvanas mounted Blight once more. This was the trouble Fort Wildervar had sent word of; she had half a mind to turn Blight around.

“Imbecilic humans probably brought this on themselves,” she grumbled to Blight.

His ears rotated toward her voice, but he didn’t otherwise react. Sylvanas held back another sigh and nudged him into motion. Forward, backward, it was all the same. If it wasn’t the idiots in this town, it would be some in another.

Soon enough, her nose picked up the pungent indications of civilization. If she concentrated she could make out vague shapes in the distance—but didn’t think it worth the effort. All the settlements of Northrend were much the same.

As she passed the pond Fort Wildervar had more-or-less sprung up around, the fog finally thinned. It took a few moments for her to process the oddity of it. People were going about their days, walking to and fro as they tended their chores. Mostly human, as she’d known it would be. The issue, she realized as her hackles rose, was the utter silence of it all. The blacksmith’s forge was cool and dark. The few stalls of the meager attempt at a market were empty, the scarred wood covered in both dirt and moisture. There was no clanging metal of a farrier, anxious merchants hawking wares, or belligerent exchanges between citizens. Their movements were slow and cautious.

Even the sentries, the sad lot that they were in their ill-fitting padded armor and scuffed kettle helms, seemed to be wary of too much or too swift a motion.

“Lo there,” the shorter one greeted in Common once Sylvanas was a few lengths away. His lined face seemed all the more severe as he frowned up at her. “‘Fraid you’ve poor timing, stranger. A curse is upon this place.”

Sylvanas waited until Blight was nearly upon them to speak. She saw the recognition in his eyes, the way his hand tightened on his halberd, and hid a smirk. “That’s why I’ve come.”

“Ranger,” he uttered through stiff lips. The younger sentry next to him, who was baby-faced in comparison, looked ready to soil himself.

“Direct me to your leader.” When she’d hunted nearby a few summers ago, a Kaldorei had been serving as warden. She hadn’t journeyed this way since.

Mutely, the sentry gestured to the misshapen building that was more tavern than inn, but served as both.

Reins in hand, she hesitated. “Have any Quel’dorei recently passed through here?”

The sentry shook his head once.

Sylvanas didn’t acknowledge him further, guiding Blight on toward the sorry little structure that passed for the stables. She dropped a few coppers into the shaking hand of one of the stablehands and turned to the tavern. No Kaldorei would lead from here, she acknowledged as she pushed into the too-warm, too-quiet interior. She didn’t relax.

A yellow tassel sewn into the left shoulder of a dark tunic caught her attention. A human reeve, and one deep into her cups if her ruddy cheeks and glazed eyes were anything to go by.

Sylvanas gestured to the barkeep as she took the bench opposite the reeve.

“Not tonight, friend,” the reeve slurred as she stared down into her mug. “We’re only ghosts left, here.”

Sylvanas pursed her lips, irritated by the woman’s despondency. “Someone here posted a hunt.”

“Ah.” The reeve wiped a sleeve across her face, her eyes and nose leaking with such strength that Sylvanas had to suppress the urge to lean back. “My predecessor. Terry.” The woman’s voice broke and the leaking intensified.

A muscle in Sylvanas’ cheek twitched as she waited. “The details,” she prompted when her patience grew too thin.

“A witch has cursed us,” the reeve said as the barkeep finally set a mug down for Sylvanas. To her dismay, the reeve snatched it up before she could think to touch its handle.

The barkeep, a bushy-bearded Kul Tiran, lingered until Sylvanas dug out a few coppers and slapped them on the table.

Everyone save Sylvanas froze at the sound, their eyes wide and restless as they waited for something to happen. Nothing did, and movement slowly resumed.

The barkeep shook his head but gathered up the copper.

Sylvanas had already experienced enough of Fort Wildervar. “Tell me where to find this witch.”

***

What irritated her most, Sylvanas decided as she darted across a dagger-thin cliff’s edge, was that she’d completely forgotten to replenish her supplies.

The reeve had been nearly useless. In the end, Sylvanas had sprinkled a pinch of bitter herb into the stolen ale to make her coherent enough to share information. Sylvanas had been tempted to administer a larger dose, but the last thing she needed was to be charged with murder. Again.

Being hanged was a tedious waste of time, especially when there was a hunt. She hadn’t hunted a witch since the spring before last. In life, she’d had a sensitivity to magic, as most Quel’dorei did. Her current state (unlife, undeath, she struggled between the two) had twisted that sensitivity to something else.

She rounded the cliff and flattened herself against it. The sudden taste of magic, wild but _arcane_ , hit the back of her throat all at once. She should have emptied the remainder of the bitter herb into the reeve’s cup. Perhaps she’d take a quick jaunt back to Fort Wildervar after all.

Calming her temper at the thought of slipping a knife up between the reeve’s ribs, Sylvanas settled in and waited. A rogue mage was an entirely different matter from a witch.

Iron dwarves and their stone golems skulked about the excavation site; Sylvanas pulled the hood of her cloak lower in hopes of disguising her eyes, which would burn bright in the gloominess as she scoured for her target.

Ah, yes. The furthest branch of tunnels were conspicuously devoid of motion. She waited a little longer, then proceeded on. Landing on silent feet some moments later, she cautiously stalked through the opening of the suspicious tunnel. The taste of arcane was stronger here.

The sporadically installed torches did little to ease the darkness within, but Sylvanas didn’t dare push the limits of her eyesight, not wanting to give her position away so readily. Her vision was keen enough to progress.

The tunnel wound and eventually split, but the magical trail was clear. Another few minutes passed. Eventually, she caught sight of a flickering blue, then purple, light. A muffled crash followed, and Sylvanas could imagine one of the shambling golems falling. A few steps more and she chanced a peek.

“Where is it?”

Sylvanas tilted her head curiously. The voice was vaguely familiar, though she was certain she couldn’t remember ever hearing it.

The human woman (even wearing a lush blue cloak and only visible from behind, there was no mistaking her figure for anything else) continued muttering quietly to herself. Though the braided hair was white, the low voice was soft and smooth.

Despite her incredible skill, Sylvanas knew there was no point in nocking an arrow. The arcane power had been contained. Wild arcane energy was the sign of a novice, but this level of control after such potency meant training.

Sylvanas allowed her boot to scrape against the stone as she shifted her weight and sank further into shadow.

The woman’s head jerked to the side, revealing a streak of blonde hair near her temple. She raised a hand and formed a bright ball of light.

The light was held aloft as she turned to fully face Sylvanas. The jagged scar across her lower right jaw, which ran almost parallel to the streak of hair, made Sylvanas think of the long one on her own abdomen. Though her silver-trimmed, pale blue robes were simple in appearance, they were clean and of the finest quality.

Surrounded by the fallen husks of iron dwarves and golems alike, Sylvanas thought she cut a striking figure—for a human.

“Show yourself,” the woman commanded.

Sylvanas toyed with the idea of firing an arrow at her, just to test her reflexes. She closed her eyes and concentrated. When next she opened them, she knew their otherworldly light would be spotted. “Tell me, mage,” she drolly intoned when blue eyes fixed on her position, “how is it you came to curse the hardworking people of Fort Wildervar?”

She knew even as she spoke that this mage had done no such thing, but hoped to solicit information.

The woman scowled. “Cursed? What simpleton told you that?”

Sylvanas thought of the reeve and silently agreed with the mage’s assessment. “A drunk one,” she admitted as she finally stepped into the outermost ring of light.

The scowl shifted into a frown. “A ranger.”

Sylvanas’ ear twitched at the faint sound, unused to the title being spoken without venom or fear. “A hunt has been posted for the terror that has stricken Fort Wildervar. In short, the current reeve has identified that terror as you.”

“That’s preposterous. Terrence knows the giants were—”

“Terrence is no longer amongst the living,” Sylvanas interrupted.

The mage’s brow furrowed, then cleared. She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Anerin?”

“Didn’t catch a name.”

“Dark hair and eyes, about yea tall,” the mage gestured to the middle of her stomach, “since she’s probably slumped on a chair at the tavern.”

A smile threatened to stretch Sylvanas’ lips. “The description fits.” She played with the fletching of one of her arrows, wondering if the mage was as quick with the arcane as she was with her wit. “Unfortunately, a hunt is a hunt.”

“Ranger,” the mage warned as she raised her free hand. “Violence is unnecessary.”

“Do you have proof that you haven’t harmed the citizens of Fort Wildervar?”

To her delight, the mage visibly hesitated. “They were wasting precious time. I merely indicated that they shouldn’t delay me. There… might have been room for misinterpretation.”

“Oh, well. If it was just a misunderstanding.” Sylvanas could understand the impulse to threaten the locals. Really, she could. Three arrows were pulled from her hip and fired in rapid succession.

The mage cussed in a way that would make a Kul Tiran proud, an ice lance and a rough burst of arcane energy stopping the first two, and the shimmering of a faint frost shield rendering the last harmless.

“Dalaran trained?” Sylvanas guessed.

The mage conjured another ball of light, revealing a deep scowl on her face. “If you’re finished, I’m trying to discover the artifact causing the real danger.”

Sylvanas idly played with her bowstring. “And how do you know of this bauble?”

“Artifact,” the mage corrected. She seemed to debate internally for a moment, her eyes drifting around the mineshaft. “The locals began excavating here in the spring. When they found an object of power a fortnight ago, the reeve sent word for a mage.”

It didn’t take a scholar to decipher the rest. “And the silly little locals didn’t think that such power would draw the attention of the rogue dwarves in the area. Typical.”

The mage, looking very tired, said, “They’re doing their best.” She paused. “If you’re finished delaying me, we can look for the object together.”

The last was delivered through gritted teeth. Normally, Sylvanas only tolerated working with other rangers. Rankling the mage might serve amusement enough for the exception. “I accept.”

“Wonderful,” the mage said in a way Sylvanas took to mean the opposite. “I’m Jaina.”

Sylvanas waited until she turned away. “You may address me as Ranger.”

The hand holding the light formed a claw, nearly extinguishing it. “Very well.” She began traversing forward, muttering under her breath. “I told Terry not to post a hunt.”

“Or,” Sylvanas interjected, “perhaps he’d still be alive if he’d posted it sooner.”

Jaina mumbled again, lower than before. Kul Tiran cussing about Elven hearing, Sylvanas surmised with a smirk.

*

They continued on in silence, the path winding and eventually sloping downward. Eventually, they reached a massive cavern, only a small part of which seemed to have been shaped by pickaxe.

Sylvanas sensed it the moment they entered, her shoulders tensing in preparation of needing her bow.

“Corruption,” Jaina said lowly. “This place reeks of it.”

Torches were scant here, and Sylvanas naturally allowed her sight to adjust. “No movement.” Her gaze alighted on a jutting, uneven slope of stone protruding from the floor at the furthest edge of the cavern. “There. Your artifact, perhaps?”

Jaina followed her stare and nodded. A jagged crimson crystal about the size of Sylvanas’ forearm was partially buried at the top of the slope. “Keep watch while I retrieve it.”

Sylvanas sneered at the command but stayed motionless when Jaina carefully began walking toward the object. Something still wasn’t right.

She remained tense with anticipation until Jaina finally made it to the slope and carefully touched the crystal. Nothing happened.

Jaina crouched alongside it, studying it before attempting to pry it free. It didn’t appear to budge.

Sylvanas realized a second too late what was wrong.

“This is really stuck in—oh no.”

A low rumbling began, building in a crescendo of sound that made Sylvanas wince as it drowned out everything else. Jaina barely had time to Blink away from the slope as it began to shift.

Sylvanas readied her bow and calmly widened her stance as a massive stone giant, easily the size of a fel reaver, sat up.

Jaina appeared next to her in a flash of light.

Sylvanas cleared her throat as dust and small pebbles sprinkled the ground around the giant. “So, how badly does that artifact need to be retrieved?”

“The corruption of the artifact isn’t just tainting this one. All the nearby giants have crystal cores, which are interconnected in an elemental network. Obviously, they’re all being influenced by the artifact.”

With a heavy sigh, Sylvanas stared up at the giant, which was now standing completely upright. Its head was just shy of scraping the roof of the cave. The artifact was buried roughly where its left eye would be, if the stone giants had them. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”

She breathed deeply to steady herself, her vision changing again, giving everything around her hazy black edges. The artifact pulsed a shimmering red-to-black, and she caught the fiery purple-blue glow that encompassed Jaina out of the corner of her eye.

“You keep it distracted, I’ll get the crystal.”

Jaina grunted. “You _do_ know stone giants are magic resistant, don’t you?”

Sylvanas raised her eyebrows. “Resistant, not immune. If you’re unequal to the task, simply say so.” She imagined she could hear Jaina grinding her teeth, and smirked.

A purple fireball appeared in Jaina’s hand. She didn’t look at Sylvanas. “Let’s get on with this, then.” She cut to the left, letting the fireball grow before expelling it at the giant.

Sylvanas swept to the right, gauging the angles of the giant and the closest wall of stone.

“This way, big guy!” she heard Jaina shout. The impact of her spells against the stoneskin made a steady beat, one which Sylvanas appreciated as she timed her first leap.

The giant turned slowly, the opposite direction from Sylvanas. The mage had spunk. More spine than anyone in Fort Wildervar, that was certain. She used her bow to vault off the ground, gripping it as she leapt from the wall to the giant and back again, keeping her momentum going until she was hanging high on the back of a stone leg. She hastily slung her bow into place over her head and shoulder, managing to find a hold just before the giant took a sharp turn.

There was a pause in magical impacts, and Sylvanas wondered if the human was a stain under the giant’s foot. As if in defiance to this thought, the spells resumed.

Sylvanas chuckled and swung her legs over, releasing her holds and twisting mid-air to catch a spot higher up. Once she’d made it to the torso, things got easier. The back of the giant had several spikes that served as the world’s most inconvenient (but traversable) stairs.

“You still alive down there?” She called out as she grunted her way up the giant’s shoulder. A stream of expletives was her only response. “Delightful,” Sylvanas murmured with a smile. She dodged a slow-moving hand and studied the artifact. On quick feet she ran up the back of the giant’s head, already holding her bow and three arrows. The world darkened around her as she imbued the arrows with power, carefully choosing their placement before firing all three at once.

The giant made a screeching sound and stumbled, and Sylvanas placidly slid three more arrows between her fingertips. An errant ice lance flew past her head, and Sylvanas took it as a warning that the mage was tiring. Empowering and firing the arrows as before, she was pleased when the stone around the artifact cracked. With a swing of the reinforced tip of her bow, the cracks grew. She waved a hand over her arrows, and four of them returned to her quiver with a puff of black smoke.

The others were too damaged. She’d have to fashion more soon if she kept wasting them. With a sigh, she once again secured her bow, and then gripped the artifact. With a few twists, it came free.

Unholy screeching filled the cavern, and Sylvanas found herself hurriedly bounding and scraping her way down one of the enormous arms. At the last moment, the giant swung away from the wall, and Sylvanas had no choice but to fall the rest of the way. Tucking into a roll to disperse the force of impact, she was startled when her movement was suddenly arrested, leaving her turning slowly toward the ground.

She sent Jaina (whose very dusty braid was half undone) a disgruntled look. “That was unnecessary."

Jaina blew at a tuft of loose hair that had drifted into her face. She smiled, her eyes tracking Sylvanas’ glacial motion. “I didn’t want the artifact to be damaged.”

Sylvanas rolled her eyes, not resisting when Jaina reached for the crystal. She crossed her arms as Jaina examined the artifact, impatiently waiting for her legs to finish their revolution toward the ground. “We’ll need a writ so your compatriots in the Kirin Tor can retrieve it.”

“Oh.” Jaina blinked some dust from her eyes, then held up a small mana crystal in her right hand and crushed it. Her blue eyes glowed brighter for a moment, and then she grinned down at Sylvanas. “I never said I worked for the Kirin Tor.”

Before Sylvanas could react, Jaina disappeared in a flash of light.

Sylvanas stared past where she’d been standing. Technically, her hunt was complete. Fort Wildervar was safe for the time being. Without warning, she fell the last few inches to the ground. She glared up at the ceiling. “Accursed witch.”


End file.
